


It's What's Engraved Upon My Heart

by eyesofshinigami



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Angst, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:55:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29588244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyesofshinigami/pseuds/eyesofshinigami
Summary: A heart is a delicate thing, Geralt has learned over the course of his studies underneath Vesemir. So many of the parts are fragile, bird-boned and fine, and it takes deft fingers and careful handling to piece it back together when it breaks. But he learns, understands how to wield his tools to suture holes and set the small, sliver-like fractures that he can see under his microscope.It’s a careful thing, handling a heart. Geralt just wishes more people understood that.OrWhere Geralt learns what it means to fall in love and the weight of what comes with it
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 15
Kudos: 74
Collections: GRB2020 Team Works





	It's What's Engraved Upon My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is the result of much blood, sweat, and tears. I want to thank corancoranthemagicalman for all of their ideas and for the wonderful art that they produced. It was a pleasure and a joy to work with you. Here's a [link](https://corancoranthemagicalman.tumblr.com/post/643665590003892224/its-whats-engraved-upon-my-heart-i-had-the) to their art on Tumblr for all the reblogs they deserve.
> 
> Thanks to floral_docs for their beta, and also for their title suggestion! You are a lifesaver.
> 
> Title taken from Fair by The Amazing Devil

A heart is a delicate thing, Geralt has learned over the course of his studies underneath Vesemir. So many of the parts are fragile, bird-boned and fine, and it takes deft fingers and careful handling to piece it back together when it breaks. But he learns, understands how to wield his tools to suture holes and set the small, sliver-like fractures that he can see under his microscope. 

It’s a careful thing, handling a heart. Geralt just wishes more people understood that. 

\--

[](https://ibb.co/Gsb5dgm)

The first time he meets Jaskier, the sky outside is gray and cloudy. He’d brush it off as the pollution that sometimes hangs about the city, but he can smell the rain on the air, thick and wet and cold in his nose. He wraps his sweater further around himself as he makes his way down the busy streets towards his shop. Roach, his faithful girl, grunts a bit at the brisk pace, but she trots along dutifully as fast as her little legs will carry her. 

He’s only been here a few months and he’s still not entirely used to the city. Having grown up in the country most of his life, high in the Blue Mountains with his father and his brothers, Geralt still finds that the bustle of city life tends to overwhelm his senses. From the mechanical clank of the clockwork men at the docks near his apartment first thing in the morning, to the burbling engines of the steam taxis down in the main square, it’s all a bit much if he lets himself dwell on it. 

Still, he’s learned to accept it. Work for a Heartsmith was hard enough to find in the squat villages near the base of the mountains, and he never liked the idea of having to compete with Vesemir for jobs. So, the city it was. He was very fortunate that the Heartsmith in Oxenfurt had been set to retire when he arrived, and had agreed to pass his shop over to Geralt once he’d completed the tasks the man had set for him. 

He turns a corner and starts down the street, past the bakery owned by the sweet-faced Triss, who greets him every morning with a wave and an offer of one of her confections. Normally, Geralt would take her up on it, but he’s running late and he’s trying to beat the rain before it starts to fall. “Smells like a downpour,” he says gruffly, but Triss doesn’t seem put off by his manner at all. 

“Perhaps. Doesn’t mean you can’t make time for a donut,” she counters, holding out a paper bag to him. “Here. On the house, just this once.” She winks at him and shakes the bag, and Geralt doesn’t want to be rude. Without faltering in his steps, he grabs it and keeps his pace down the sidewalk. 

The bookstore next to his, owned by what he assumes is a husband and wife pair, is closed for the day, and Geralt briefly wonders why that must be. Occasionally he’ll see them loading up books into their cart, most likely off to a market on the other side of the city, but there’s no one there today. Strange, but he doesn’t put too much thought into it as he pulls out the brass key to his own shop from his pocket. Roach dances around his heels and darts inside when the door opens, settling herself in the plush velvet pillow he keeps by the window just for her. 

“Lazy thing,” Geralt murmurs, but the corners of his mouth tip up as he kneels down to unlatch her leash. He moves about the shop, muscles familiar enough with the routine that he doesn’t have to think about it as he does. Turn on the lights. Review the orders that are due that day. Polish his equipment and gather the parts he needs so he doesn’t have to get up from his work table to fetch them. 

The clock on the wall chimes the seven o’clock hour, with its pleasant bell and handsome face. He inherited it along with the shop and never had the urge to take it down. The inner workings of a heart weren’t all that different from that of a clock or a watch, the same fiddly bits that required a deft hand and careful patience to set into motion.

Apparently, he’s feeling rather poetic this morning. 

Geralt sits down and takes a deep breath, glancing up at the corkboard where he’s got tickets pinned. As he munches on the donut that Triss was so kind to give him, he lets himself sink into the mindset he needs to do his work. 

For as important as they are, hearts break for many different reasons, reasons that are easy to get lost in if one puts too much thought into it. A broken heart is his business, true, but not in the way many people would think. It’s none of his concern about why a patron brings their heart to him, all he needs to focus on is how to make them whole again, how the parts fit together and where he needs to pad and what sort of needle he needs to sew it up tight again. 

_Don’t let yourself get caught up, boy,_ he hears Vesemir’s gruff voice echo in his head. _Your own heart isn’t invulnerable, and you wouldn’t be the one to piece it back together, either._

Well, he’s never had to worry about that. The closest he’s come to his own heartbreak was years ago and he’d never needed the services of a Heartsmith. His heart was made of sturdier stuff, perhaps hardened from his mother’s abandonment and the years spent drifting through the system until he came to Vesemir. And the old man didn’t have time for soft words and gentle hands, he taught Geralt how to build the walls around his heart to keep it safe within his chest. Vesemir wasn’t cruel, but he knew pain and sadness and heartbreak and wanted to spare his children that he chose to love the same pain.

_Enough of that,_ Geralt thinks to himself as he dusts crumbs from his fingers. Roach is already snoozing away happily in the little blue bed he bought her, melding with the soft soundtrack of the rain against the window in a way that soothes him. Once his hands are clean, he takes a breath and lets the beat of raindrops against the glass wash over him to steady himself as he picks up the box beside his elbow.

Each heart is carefully stored inside a wooden box, lined inside with velvet and kept in a cool, dry place. His brother Eskel carves them, made with care and careful hands. If Geralt were a sappier man, he’d say that Eskel’s boxes help the healing process, which is why he gives them as a gift to every heart he fixes, but he’s not. He’s just Geralt, and he prefers to keep the emotions out of his work, just as Vesemir taught him to.

The hours slip by as he sits at his workstation, changing gears and mending cracks with careful stitches and special glue. Some hearts require very little, others require so much fixing that Geralt almost thinks it might not be worth it. Why waste time having your heart mended, just to hand it to the next person to break? “I suppose it’s good for business, having your heart broken over and over again,” he mutters out loud, earning a soft snore from Roach. 

People filter in and out of the shop like spectres that Geralt barely notices. Hearts are dropped off and picked up, just like any other day. Money goes into the register, there are handshakes and heartfelt thank yous, and more than one comment about how adorable Roach is. Just like any other day.

Except it’s not. 

Geralt’s stomach is starting to growl when the bell above the door tinkles and he hears the stamping off feet, shaking off the wet. The rain has been steadily falling and it’s no surprise the customer is soaked through. “Goodness! I’m dreadfully sorry, but I hope that you don’t mind that I ducked in to get out of the rain for a bit!” 

He looks up, prepared to make a snappy comment about how this isn’t a common area, when he’s struck speechless for a moment. The only word that he can think of is _bright,_ at first. The man who has wandered in is dressed in a doublet and breeches that are the shade of a cloudless spring sky, the color almost matched by the vivid blue of his eyes. He’s smiling and Geralt feels like he’s staring at the sun. It’s… distracting. He’s distracting, and all he’s done is smile and ask politely if he could seek solace in the shop for a while. 

Geralt should tell him to leave. He’s got work to do and he doesn’t need someone upsetting the quiet, soothing atmosphere in the shop. Instead, he says, “As long as you don’t bother me. I take it you’re not here for business?” 

The man shakes his head and pulls a white handkerchief from the satchel slung around his shoulder to dab at his hair and face. “No, just seeking refuge. It wasn’t raining nearly as hard when I left my bedsit!” He chuckles, like the idea of getting caught in the rain amuses him. Geralt fails to see how it’s funny. “But, I won’t lie to you. I’m quite curious what kind of shop this is.” 

“A repair shop,” is all Geralt says. He blinks and begins to wonder if allowing him to stay is a good idea. Geralt’s not used to answering questions, or speaking to anyone, really. The only people who put forth any effort are his brothers and Triss, when he’s feeling particularly sociable. The fact that this loud, bright man is engaging him makes him feel a little off-kilter. 

“Oh, how lovely! What kind of repairs? Watches, perhaps? I have a friend that I could send your way, her pocket watch has been on the fritz since a dreadful incident with a steam carriage, and I’m sure she’d appreciate--”

“No. Not watches. I’m a Heartsmith,” Geralt interrupts him. He doesn’t explain, or move to show him, just… goes back to working. He has orders to complete, he tells himself, even though he knows he’s ahead for the day. 

The man lets out a gasp and saunters to Geralt’s workstation like he’s been here a thousand times before. He doesn’t touch, but he lets out a happy hum when he sees the heart that Geralt is currently stitching back together. “Oh, I’ve heard of your trade before. How fascinating. I’m a poet and musician by trade, so broken hearts are my business too!” He bows with a flourish and gives Geralt another smile that is nearly blinding. “My name is Julian Pankratz, but I am known in most circles as Jaskier. And you are?” 

“Busy,” is what comes out of Geralt’s mouth first. He expects a scoff, or a comment about how rude he is, but instead the man, Jaskier, just lets out a laugh. 

“I probably deserved that, considering I came bustling into your business like this. Do you mind if I watch? Just until I dry a little, and then I’ll be out of your hair.” Jaskier pulls up the spare stool that Geralt keeps behind the counter and sits down next to the table. 

Geralt should say no. The word is nestled on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill out, but he surprises himself when he keeps it behind his teeth. He nods, sighing and hoping that he’s not making a mistake by letting Jaskier stay here. 

At first, he ignores Jaskier and gets back to work. He grabs tools and tinkers with the delicate gears and springs nestled deep inside the heartflesh, extracting broken pieces and replacing them with newer, sturdier ones. The familiar motions of his hands are soothing and it isn’t until he’s stitching the heart back up when he notices that Jaskier’s holding a quill and a slip of parchment. “What are you doing?” 

“Oh! Well, watching you work was incredible, I found it inspiring. Your hands are so steady and your focus so intense, it just screamed poetry to me. I hope you don’t mind? It’s really just ideas and a snippet rattling around in my brain. I could show you, if you like,” Jaskier chatters, tapping his toes against the bottom rung. “Or not, if you’re not interested. I’m sorry, I’m being a bother, aren’t I?” 

_No,_ Geralt thinks to himself. It should be a bother, but it’s not, which is why he says, “Tell me.” 

Jaskier’s mouth forms into a perfect little ‘o’ of surprise, and Geralt tries very hard not to stare at the way his lips curve or how plush they are. It’s been a long time, too long, which could be the only explanation for his sudden fascination with the other man’s mouth. “It’s rather rough, so please, don’t laugh.” He holds up the slip of parchment and clears his throat, “ _We forget that the heart is made of tender flesh, fragile beneath the touch of another, that it can be sundered and undone, by deed or words of a lover…”_ Jaskier trails off with a sheepish little smile, tucking the quill behind his ear. “Not my best work, surely, but you get the idea.”

“It’s not just lovers,” Geralt says, placing the heart back in its box as carefully as he can. It feels warm beneath his fingers, not whole but pieced back together enough that maybe his customer will be more careful with it next time. “Heartbreak can be many things.” 

Jaskier hums thoughtfully and taps the quill against his chin, the tip of his tongue poking out the side of his mouth. It’s distracting, to say the least. “Oh, I know. Just, writing poetry about your parents kicking you out doesn’t have the same ring to it as love that you’ve lost, you know?” He chuckles, but the sound echoes hollow and Geralt very nearly asks what he means by that. “Anyway, Geralt, it seems the rain has stopped. I shall get out of your hair now, I think.” He gets to his feet and packs away his things in the leather satchel he’d brought with him. 

Geralt looks up at the clock and startles a bit when he realizes it’s nearly closing time. Had he really been so distracted by Jaskier’s presence that he’d let the hours slip away? Roach is sitting by the door, tail wagging and her tongue lolling out of her mouth, as if even she had been paying more attention than he had. “I’ll walk you out. It’s closing time anyway,” Geralt says as he starts to put his tools away. The company hadn’t exactly been… unwelcome, even if he couldn’t make himself say it out loud. 

They walk out together, Jaskier waiting until Geralt finishes locking the door behind them before he sets off down the street. He gives a jaunty wave and hurries in the opposite direction of Geralt, heading off towards the university a few blocks away. Geralt looks down at Roach, who gives a soft _whuff_ at him with an incredibly judgemental expression for a dog. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not like we’ll ever see him again anyway.” There’s a small tug in his chest at that, just below his ribs, but Geralt steadfastly ignores it. “Come on, mutt. Let’s go home.” 

\--

Geralt fully expects that Jaskier’s visit was just a coincidence, two people crossing paths in life before they drift away like boats on the open sea. He tells himself that it’s fine, that he doesn’t need the distraction anyway. 

Which is why he’s so startled when Jaskier appears in the shop again, less than a week after the first time he dropped in. He swings into the workshop like a hurricane, all mussed hair and bright eyes that make Geralt feel that same little tug beneath his ribcage. “Geralt, you’ll never guess what happened!” He talks like he and Geralt are old friends that have known each other their entire lives. The familiarity should make Geralt growl behind his teeth, but he finds that he likes it. He’s forgotten what it’s like to have a friend that isn’t Eskel, or Lambert. 

“What is it?” Geralt asks, not taking his eyes off his work. The heart brought to him that morning was in so many pieces, he isn’t sure he’s going to be able to piece it back together, but he has to try. 

He hears Jaskier pulling the stool close to his work table and sitting down before he starts rifling through his satchel. No doubt he’s pulling out another quill and parchment while he chatters away. “The poem I wrote while I was here was well-received by my colleagues! They’re talking about putting it in one of the next anthologies that the university puts out. Can you imagine? My work, being published! It’s not exactly a book of my own, but it’s a start.” He is careful not to disturb the work table even as he shuffles around, something that warms Geralt to him even further, even if he’s still talking like he’s worried his words will be snatched from his mouth. “So, if you don’t mind, I would like to spend more time in your company. I think that you’ll prove to be a wonderful muse.” 

Geralt just hums in reply, not sure what else to say. It’s just another service, he supposes. He had thought--well, it doesn’t matter what he thought. Jaskier is here to get inspiration for his poetry, not keep Geralt company. “Do what you want,” is all Geralt says. He puts it out of his mind as he leans closer with this magnifying glass, carefully arranging the pieces like a particularly hard jigsaw puzzle. 

“What happened to that one? It’s… it’s a mess,” Jaskier whispers from his side. When Geralt looks up, Jaskier is leaning as close as he can without touching Geralt or his work table. “That looks frightfully difficult.” 

“It is,” Geralt hears himself say, grabbing another, smaller pair of forceps to use. “This one was the loss of a child. The mother grieved for over a year before she came. I told you, heartbreak comes in many forms.” He thinks of his godchild, how much he misses her now that she’s away at school, but keeps it to himself. It doesn’t compare. “Her husband eventually brought her to me and I told her I would do my best.” 

Jaskier sucks in a breath, deep and shaky. Geralt’s sure he’d smell salt in the air if he paid closer attention. “That’s horrible, but makes sense. I… don’t know what I would do in that situation.” He lets out a sigh and taps the edge of the quill against his knee. “Do you have many of those?” 

“More than I’d like, but I knew what I was getting myself into.” For a brief moment, Geralt thinks of his mother, the woman who left him behind in the wake of her mental illness, her otherness. Oftentimes he’s grateful for the life that he was given, even with the cost it took, but there’s a small part of himself that wonders what his own mother’s heart would look like now, giving him up as she did. But he shakes his head and clears the cobwebs of those thoughts away. _Focus,_ he reminds himself. 

Jaskier just hums, and Geralt turns to look at him, for the first time in what feels like hours. If he looks hard enough, he can see the edges of Jaskier’s own heart and how they’re frayed, bruised and a little worn, but Jaskier smiles like it’s nothing. It gives Geralt pause. How many uncaring hands have touched his heart? How many bruises have been left by others who didn’t know how to handle a heart like this?  
  
Geralt thinks of his own heart, held tight in his chest and guarded like a fortress. He wonders what Jaskier would think of that.  
  
“Well, this has been enlightening. Do you mind if I stay a bit longer? I have an idea for a song,” Jaskier says finally, drawing them both out of their thoughts. At Geralt’s nod, Jaskier begins to scribble in a notebook he didn’t have last time, lips forming around unspoken words that Geralt finds himself curious to hear.  
  
He doesn’t ask, though. He goes back to his own work, but keeps watching Jaskier out of the corner of his eye. The scratching against the paper continues, counter to the soft snores of Roach at his feet and the ticking of the clock on the wall. Again, he finds himself strangely comforted by the company, Jaskier sitting close enough that Geralt can hear his soft mumbles and little huffs of breath as he writes the lines he seems to have in his head. 

It’s… nice. Different. He thinks he likes it. 

\--

It continues that way for a while. Jaskier pops in every once in a while and stays at Geralt’s side while he builds muscle and changes clockworks, sometimes chattering endlessly, sometimes still and quiet while he writes in the little notebook he brings with him. He hasn’t shared any more lines of poetry or snippets of melody since that first day, though Geralt catches them every so often while he composes in the shop. Roach adores Jaskier, making fast friends after Jaskier brought her a bone from the butcher’s that she keeps in her bed to gnaw on in between naps. 

It’s good. Very good. But like all things, the good can’t last.

Jaskier is perched on his usual stool, telling Geralt about some poetry contest that was going on at the university, when the shop door opens and Geralt’s senses are filled with the sweet smell of lilac and gooseberries.

“Yennefer?” he asks, nearly dropping his tools and getting to his feet. 

She’s a vision as always, dressed in her best black jacket and long skirt that shimmers as she walks, made of a fabric that she raves about but Geralt can never remember. Her dark hair is tousled and her tan skin is just the faintest bit of pink, like she just stepped off one of the airships flying into the city. With her, it’s very likely. “Of course, Geralt, who would it be? How are you, darling?” she says as she takes off her gloves, setting them on the counter. Their bodies draw together like magnets and she kisses his cheek softly. “This dusty old shop keeping you busy? I had thought you--oh, who is this?” 

Geralt shakes his head to clear it of the fog he always feels after they see each other and remembers that Jaskier is still sitting on the stool. A pang of guilt hits him, sitting in his stomach like a lead weight. “Oh, this is Jaskier, he comes by sometimes.” The words feel gummy and wrong in his mouth, and he’s not sure why. “Jaskier, this is Yennefer, my paramour.” The air in the room feels wrong-footed and like the world will tilt at any moment and Geralt feels like he’s been caught in the act. He’s just not sure who is doing the catching.

A myriad of expressions cross Jaskier’s face until it settles into a blank mask that Geralt has never seen him wear before. He hops off the stool and clears his throat, “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Yennefer. Well, Geralt, since you have company, I feel like I should be on my way.” He doesn’t give Geralt a chance to respond before he sweeps out of the shop like a hurricane, so quick that Roach lets out a whine when the door closes behind him.

“He seems interesting. Who is he?” Yennefer asks, settling down onto the stool that Jaskier just vacated. She reaches out to pet Roach, but Roach gives a soft _whuff_ and goes and lays back down on her bed with the bone. “Oh, I see, no treats, no pets, is that it?” 

Geralt is still reeling a bit from Jaskier’s sudden exit. He feels like he’s missed something, some important piece of a puzzle he didn’t even realize he was putting together. “He wandered in one day when it was raining, and he keeps coming back. He’s apparently a professor at the university?” He feels a bit silly, not knowing for sure, but he’s learned to tune out half of what Jaskier says because sometimes it’s just fluff. “He says the shop inspires him.”

Yennefer lets out a soft ‘hmm’, in that way of hers that makes Geralt feel like he’s done something foolish. “I’m sure it’s the shop. Now, how much more work do you have? I’m only in town for two days--”

“Two? I thought you said that you’d be in for at least a week, this time,” Geralt replies, his eyebrows furrowing together. The heart he’s mending can wait until tomorrow, too distracted by Yenenfer’s presence to even consider finishing it right now. 

“Well, that was until I received an invitation to oversee the council decisions in Tretogor. The king requested me by name, I could hardly refuse. He had his finest airship hunt me down in Novigrad, of all places, and the messenger was most insistent.” She waves her hands as she talks, her eyes wide and glittering as she does. Geralt would find it beautiful if he wasn’t so annoyed. “Oh, Geralt, don’t make that face. I told you when I got my law degree that this was how it was going to be! I’m good at what I do and I enjoy it, and that’s garnered me some attention.” 

He grumbles under his breath. They had agreed, but not like this. She hadn’t even sent him a pneumo-message or called him on the xenovox that she’d insisted he install in his cottage. “Yes, but Yennefer, it’s been a month since we’ve seen each other.” He’s aware how he sounds, petulant and testy, but why wouldn’t he be?

Yennefer is frowning now, arms crossed and her shoulder pulled back in a way that can’t be comfortable. “Well, you know, you could always come with me. You don’t have to stay in this dusty old shop and pine for me like some maiden in a novel. Just get Eskel to watch Roach and go on vacation for once.” 

He could, but he thinks about all the hearts on the shelf, all the customers that are expecting him to finish and mend what has been so painfully broken. Plus, the idea of being cooped up in a castle with meddlesome nobles with too much to say and not enough control not to say it is off-putting. Geralt likes the quiet of the shop, even when Jaskier is here filling it up with his music and his presence. “Yen, you know I can’t. Look, I didn’t mean to start an argument. Let’s go get some dinner and spend the evening together, all right? We can make the most of our time while you’re here.” _Because there’s so little to spend,_ he thinks bitterly, but he tucks that thought into the back of his mind, out of sight. 

Her eyes narrow and she doesn’t look any less tense. “Fine, but this is a conversation we will be coming back to. You can’t expect me to stay here with you if you aren’t willing to come with me, you know,” she says, getting to her feet and smoothing out the wrinkles in her dress. 

“Hmm,” is all Geralt says before he gathers Roach and he locks the door behind them. 

Later, after they’ve shared a delicious meal and tumbled into bed together, Geralt thinks about what Yennefer said in the shop. His work isn’t any less important than hers, and she could just as easily handle some of her consultations from afar. He knows, deep in his gut, that he’s been uncharitable, but in the dark of his own bed with his own thoughts, he’s allowed to be. 

For a brief moment, Jaskier’s face flashes through his mind. He thinks of how the poet wanders in and out of his life, but it doesn’t feel nearly as permanent as Yennefer’s time away often does. It’s… different, but Geralt isn’t willing to go down that path too far. He’s here with his lover, he shouldn’t be thinking of someone else anyway.

And if he goes to sleep thinking of nonsensical lyrics and too-blue eyes, that’s no one’s business but his own.

\--

After Yennefer leaves, Geralt spends his days glancing at the door, waiting. He feels disappointment sink into his gut every single time it’s not who he wants to see, or who he expects to see. Jaskier stumbled into his life with a crash and a bang, but it’s been nearly two weeks since he’s been by. “I’m sure he’s fine,” he tells Roach, when both of them glance up at the tinkling bell above the door. She _whuffs_ at him and settles back down, looking forlornly at the door. It’s then that Geralt realizes he’s never asked Jaskier anything about where he lives, or how to contact him if something should happen. Something he’ll have to rectify when Jaskier comes back, because Geralt doesn’t really want to think about the possibility that he might not. 

It’s nearing three weeks before Jaskier comes in, looking tired and wan in the face. His clothes are rumpled and he just feels… less. Ordinarily, Jaskier feels like he fills up the room, his smile wide and his words bright. Sometimes it feels like Geralt doesn’t even have the space to breathe when he’s around him, but now, he feels like he’s clutched in on himself and Geralt has no idea why. Jaskier’s heart is intact, no cracks or fissures that he hasn’t seen before, so what’s wrong? “Jaskier? What’s wrong with you?”

Jaskier smiles, but it’s tired, pulled too tight at the edges. “I’ve just been busy. I had to prepare for that poetry competition, then it was time for final exams, and…” he trails off, not looking at Geralt as he tugs the stool to the worktable. He’s sat just a short distance away, but Geralt feels like he’s looking at a gaping chasm between them. “I didn’t want to be in your hair while your lady love was here. Seems rude.”

The words don’t sit right with Geralt, but he’s not sure what to say to pull the truth out of Jaskier, or why he even _wants_ to. They’re just business partners, the way Jaskier talks about it. “You wouldn’t have been in my hair. Yennefer left nearly right away. I--” _I would have appreciated the company. I missed you. I wanted you here._ But he keeps them behind his teeth and settles in to start on his next project. Why is this so hard? “Did you win?”

Jaskier pulls out his quill and notebook, still not looking at Geralt. “No, unfortunately. I came in third, but there’s always next year! I’m afraid I wasn’t as put together for the competition as I should have been.” He doesn’t elaborate, and Geralt doesn’t ask. “How was your visit?”

“Short, like always.” He doesn’t want to talk about Yennefer, not while Jaskier is here, nor does he want to think about how much what happened is still bothering him. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re working on? I’d rather hear about that.” 

When he looks up, Jaskier is staring at him, mouth dropped open and some of the color returning to his cheeks. “You want to? I thought you said that you didn’t like it when I was too loud.” He doesn’t recall saying that, but sometimes words blend together and Geralt doesn’t think too hard about them. “Well, I had this idea for a sonnet about loss, after you told me the story about the woman losing her child, and…” 

For a moment, Geralt just sits and listens, taking in what Jaskier is saying. It’s mostly flowery words and nonsense, but the undercurrent of pain and loss he hears gives Geralt pause. Despite what Jaskier claims, he’s beginning to think that there’s more to this sonnet than meets the eye. His gut roils, for just a moment, but Geralt tamps down hard on it and lets himself sink into the cadence of Jaskier’s voice. He doesn’t want to think about it too much. When Jaskier is finished, Geralt says, “It’s… good. I don’t know much about poetry, but it sounded good.”

Jaskier’s face turns a pretty shade of pink and he glances down at his notebook with a soft smile. “Oh. Thank you. It’s different from my usual fare, but. I was inspired.” He fists his hand in the soft fabric of his jacket, right above where his heart is. “Anyway, thank you for your kind words. They’re much appreciated. Now, we shall see what my students think!”

A perfect opportunity. “Your students? You teach at the University?” he asks, trying to sound casual. He thinks about sitting at his work table, unable to reach Jaskier when he disappeared, and he suddenly _has_ to know more. 

“Oh, yes. I’m a professor. I teach composition. I’d rather emphasize music, but the university didn’t have room for another musician in the department. So, poetry it is, for now.” Another shadow passes across Jaskier’s face, and Geralt can _feel_ the way Jaskier’s heart tremors at the thought. It almost makes Geralt reach out for him. “My real love is music. Oh, if I could play in front of crowds and compose ballads and play for courts in far off lands. In another life, I believe I’d be a bard. Adventures and heroics and heartbreak. What about you?” 

“What do you mean?” Geralt asks, nearly dropping his tools. 

“Do you ever think about what your life might have been like? What else could you be doing? Didn’t you ever dream of being something other than a Heartsmith?”

The question gives him pause. He remembers dreaming of knights and rescuing princesses, but all that fell away when his mother left him and he ended up in Vesemir’s care. The man was never cruel, but they didn’t have time for fanciful thoughts and silly imaginings like that anymore. Jaskier’s question strikes a chord that Geralt didn’t even know could be played anymore. “Once, but it doesn’t matter. I’m here now and that’s what matters.” 

Jaskier huffs out a breath with his usual dramatic flair. “Geralt, my friend, one day we will go on a grand adventure and I will write tales of it for years to come, and you will have to suffer with my endless recounting of your noble deeds and tireless work ethic. Just you wait.” He winks and goes back to scribbling in his notebook, leaving Geralt feeling off-balance yet again.

Yennefer had said the same thing, before she left, but the words hit differently when Jaskier says them. Instead of dread, Geralt feels something warm pool in the pit of his stomach at the idea. It’s ridiculous and will never happen, but it’s a good thought, one that Geralt tucks into the back of his mind to think about another time. “Sure, Jaskier. One day.” 

“I’ll hold you to it.”

\--

After that first strange visit, the normal cadence to the way Geralt and Jaskier revolve around each other resumes once more. Geralt finds peace in it, likes the pattern of familiarity that has built up around them. Jaskier comes in and brings Roach treats, settles down, and keeps Geralt company as he works. It’s… good. The longer it goes on, the more Geralt relaxes and begins to believe that maybe there is something more here than a business partnership. He learns to listen in between Jaskier’s words and find what he’s really trying to say, and Jaskier learns that sometimes they can just exist beside each other, both of them working on their crafts side by side in quiet, comfortable silence. 

It’s good. Very good. Good enough that Geralt’s not sure he ever wants it to end. He likes the way they orbit each other, how natural it feels, like there’s never been a time that Jaskier hasn’t been sitting at his side like this. It’s perfect. 

Until it isn’t.

It comes to a head one night when he’s getting ready to close up shop, Jaskier happily chattering to him about one of his student’s compositions that left him speechless. Geralt watches him with a small smile as Jaskier gesticulates wildly, practically glowing as he talks about the young lady’s accomplishments. “And if I’m lucky, she’ll choose me to sponsor her in the student competition. Oh, what an honor it would be! Some day, she’s going to be performing on a stage in Novigrad, or singing for the Emperor in Nilfgaard, just you watch. I just hope she will look back and think of her dear old professor at Oxenfurt who thought the world of her.” He’s smiling so wide his eyes crinkle in the corner, and for a moment, Geralt feels his heart skip a beat in his chest. 

It makes him pause. That’s… it’s never done that before. He takes a deep breath, tries to ignore the soft, warm feeling behind his ribcage. “I’m sure she will, Jask. You’re pretty unforgettable, what with how loud and pushy you are.” He means it be a little cutting, but it comes out soft, fond. The words leave Geralt’s tongue a little thick in his mouth. 

Jaskier’s face softens and goes a little pink, and Geralt’s heart does the thing again, skipping a beat that it shouldn’t. “Oh Geralt, you say the sweetest things. A man could fall in love with you with that kind of sweet talk.” He brushes his hand against Geralt’s, just the barest touch of skin against skin that has blood singing in his veins. Jaskier, of course, is oblivious to his plight and heads towards the door, the same way they do every night when he stays past sunset. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Geralt.” He gives a little wave and slips out the door, whistling a tune that Geralt hears fading in the distance as he disappears down the street.

Geralt is left standing in the shop, clutching his chest and feeling off-balance, like his knees are made of water and his stomach will drop out any second. He knows this feeling, has heard many tales and has fixed many hearts that have been left in tatters once the feeling is gone. “No. No, no, no, no, no,” he repeats to himself, sinking to the floor. 

He can’t be falling for Jaskier. They’re just friends, and he has Yennefer. Yennefer is the one who should make his stomach swoop and his heart falter in it’s rhythm. Maybe once upon a time it did, he admits for just a moment before violently shoving that thought back into its box. Guilt coils in his gut, heavy like a lead weight, and he grabs the xevonovox that Yennefer had given him but he never uses. She doesn’t answer, but he leaves a message just the same. 

_When are you coming back?_

He doesn’t get an answer. 

He tries not to stew over it the whole way home, Roach butting her big head against the back of his knees as they walk. It is still not enough to jar him from the strange fog that’s settled over his mind, mulling it over until his thoughts are jagged and worn thin. He tosses and turns and sleeps in fits and starts, waking the next morning feeling like death. 

For the first time in years, he doesn’t go in to open the shop. Instead, he wanders around his small cottage like a spectre, glancing at the box waiting for it to come to life with a response, or for a message to drop into his pneumo-box. As the day drags on, there’s nothing. At least, not until something arrives in the late afternoon. He rushes to open it, but instead of Yennefer’s loopy scrawl, it’s another familiar writing, scratchy and barely legible, but he can read it just the same.

_Geralt,_

_I came by the shop and you weren’t there! I got worried, and hope this message finds you well. The postmaster at the university insisted that it will, which is a relief. I hope you’re not ill, and if you are, I hope you’re taking care of yourself. I think you’ve earned a day of rest, and hope to see you soon, my friend._

_-Jaskier_

He’s not sure why the words make his eyes burn and his throat tight, but they do. Maybe it’s the simple affection of being thought of and missed, even for only an afternoon. Perhaps it's the guilty feeling that has been rolling around in his belly all morning, for feeling this way in the first place. He has Yennefer, and she is more than enough. So why does his heart flutter and thump hard against his ribs whenever he thinks of that one, simple touch to the hand?

Geralt is not a romantic. He knows he’s stoic, not well-spoken, and often comes off cold. Even Yennefer has remarked before about how sometimes he feels a million miles away, even when he’s sitting right beside her or they’re laying in bed together. So why now? Why this?

_Guard your heart well, Geralt._

Vesemir’s words rattle in his brain and he spares a thought for calling his father and mentor, hoping to be talked out of whatever nonsense this is. But he doesn’t. He just needs to sit down, to think, to parse out his feelings and separate them into neat little piles to deal with them. With a sigh, he gets up and grabs Roach’s lead and clicks his tongue to get her attention. 

The weather is pleasant, the sun out and not a cloud in the sky as they make their way down the cobblestone road. There aren’t as many people out as he expected there to be, but most days he’s tucked into his shop and barely lifts his head to pay attention to the people walking by the window. 

_Except for Jaskier. You lift your head for Jaskier._

He chases that thought away with a growl, taking a deep breath to try and clear his mind. He ignores the itch behind his ribs and tries to chase away the thoughts that insist on fluttering around his head like mosquitoes in the height of summer. Buzzing and just as annoying, he thinks to himself. If only he could swat them away as easily. 

His feet carry him down a familiar path and he finds himself standing in front of Triss’ bakery, the smell of cakes and pies making his stomach growl as he pushes open the door. There are a few customers milling about, but Geralt makes his way to the counter and Triss greets him with a warm, “Geralt! I didn’t expect to see you! I saw your shop was closed, are you feeling okay?” 

He grunts, but thinks better of it. Triss hasn’t done anything to deserve that. “Yes, just needed a day. Can I get a coffee and one of your feta and spinach croissants?” 

She nods and gets to work, bustling about behind the counter as she makes up his order. “That friend of yours came in, wondering if I had seen you. He looked really concerned!” 

Geralt’s stomach drops a little, but there’s also a light flutter in his chest that he heartily ignores. “My friend? Do you mean Jaskier?”

“Is he the one with the colorful outfits, carrying a satchel? If that’s him, then yes. He’s a pleasant sort, comes in and orders breakfast now and then when he’s running early, or so he says. Very chatty, I like him,” Triss says, oblivious to Geralt’s plight. Running early? What does that mean? Does Jaskier wait to come around the same time everyday? Why does that bother him so much? “All right, Geralt. Here’s your order, so--Geralt? Are you all right?”

He closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath, holding it for a beat before he lets it out. “Yes, I’m fine. I told you I needed a day, guess I’m more under the weather than I thought I was.” He hands her the money, grabs his items, and walks out before she can speak or give him his change. He hurries through the people walking down the street, bobbing and weaving along the sidewalk and trying to avoid the steam carriages that are parked on the roadside. The sounds of the city are suddenly too sharp, too much, and his ears are ringing as he makes his way to the quiet little park just down the road from his little cottage. 

There’s a person or two wandering around, but nothing like the crowded city streets, and Geralt drops himself down onto a bench underneath a sprawling oak tree. “What am I going to do, Roach?” he rumbles as he scratches her behind the ears. She lets out a whine and noses at his hand, but that’s not an answer that he can do anything with. He knows that the heart is complicated, knows the clockwork pieces and inner workings can be small and fiddly, and difficult to make sense of if you don’t know what you’re looking for. But here, in his own heart, he’s not sure and it bothers him. 

Maybe if he eats, drinks his coffee, and tries to enjoy the sunshine, the answer will come to him.

\--

Two days later and there’s still no answer from Yennefer, and he’s no closer to finding a solution to his problem. He’s back in the shop, working on a heart of an old widower who thinks he wants to find love again, and Geralt tries not to choke a bit on the irony of it. Jaskier has got his notebook out and he’s humming a tune that Geralt doesn’t recognize. “Jaskier… have you ever been in love?” He’s not sure why he asks the question, but it’s left his tongue before he can think better of it. 

Jaskier’s cheeks pink a little, but the look on his face shifts into something soft and considering, a look that Geralt finds he likes. “I don’t know, if I’m honest. I’m sure I have thought I’ve been, but who can say for sure? What is love, after all? Some would tell you about fireworks and bells ringing, others would say that it’s being able to sit quietly in front of a fire together, while others still would tell you that it’s pleasures of the flesh fueled by passion. I think love looks different in the eyes of different people. You taught me there are different kinds of heartbreak, why couldn’t love be the same? And I’m not just talking about love between friends versus the love between a married couple, but the way I love might feel different from the way you do.” Jaskier licks his lips and cocks his head. “Why do you ask?”

“Just… curious. What do you think love looks like?” 

Another moment of quiet contemplation, and Jaskier looks down at his notebook. “I’d say love is all of those things. Sometimes it's a burning passion, sometimes it’s comfortable like an old shirt. Sometimes there’s bells, sometimes there’s only silence. I think the most important thing is that love takes effort, no matter what it looks or sounds like. Like… a garden, for example. It needs to be tended, effort put in, or else it withers on the vine.” 

That gives Geralt pause. It… makes a lot of sense, but he doesn’t like the way it makes him feel. It makes him stop and think about things that he’d filed neatly into a box in the back of his mind and didn’t want to pull out again. “That’s an interesting metaphor,” is all he can think to say.

“What about you? What do you think love looks like? It’s only fair since you asked, you know.” Jaskier’s smiling, but there’s something underneath, something Geralt can’t quite place.

A thousand things flit through his mind, things he could say that aren’t what anyone wants to hear. _Love looks like heartbreak. It looks like a child left behind. It looks like shattered pieces in a box, too sharp and too small to put back together. It looks like the tired face of an old man with stories kept tight inside his breast pocket._ What does Geralt know of love, anyway? But then he thinks of Ciri’s face, of Eskel’s goats and Lambert’s ridiculous concoctions. It’s Yennefer’s skin when things are good and she’s here. It also looks like a blue-eyed young man with a devilish grin and fingers constantly stained with ink. 

All the air leaves Geralt’s lungs and he has to stop and breathe for a second. 

“Geralt? Are you all right?” Jaskier asks, the stool scraping across the floor as he flies to Geralt’s side. He doesn’t touch, but the warmth of him makes Geralt’s skin tingle. “You went white as a sheet, do you need some water?” 

“No, no. Just. It happens sometimes,” he lies through his teeth, but he can’t tell Jaskier the real reason his heart is pounding against his ribs, like a bird aching to be free. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be alright.” 

Jaskier doesn’t look sold, but he lets it go, returning to his seat. His eyes still track Geralt’s movements, like he’s waiting for him to fall apart if he strays too far. “If you’re sure. Now, I think that’s enough talk of deep subjects for today. Shall I regale you with the tale of the time I accidently walked in on the dean and the sculpture professor? Oh, Velda nearly had my head…” 

Geralt is grateful for the out, even though he doesn’t say as much. Instead, he tries his best to listen, but his brain is spinning out of control and he’s not sure what to do about it. Now that he thought about it, he can’t stuff it back in its box and pretend like he’s not falling in love with this ridiculous man who shines like the sun and is just as hard to look at, some days. What could he possibly offer someone like Jaskier? And then there is the matter of Yennefer, who finally replied to say that she would be back in a few days’ time. Geralt knows he has to make a decision, but the idea leaves him with a weight in his stomach and a lump in his throat. 

He has time. He’ll think about it some more.

\--

It’s raining the day Yennefer makes it back to the city, reminding Geralt of the first day that Jaskier stumbled into his shop, uprooting his entire being with all the force of a hurricane. Thankfully, Jaskier is busy today, so he doesn’t have to worry about any unexpected drop-ins or surprises. He wraps his hand around the small, velvet box in his pocket and tries to breathe, but he feels like he might choke on each inhale. Ever since he got out of bed that morning, he’s been feeling out of sorts and off-balance, even though he refuses to look at why. Even Roach seems to be able to tell, fidgeting at his feet instead of laying in the bright blue bed that Jaskier had bought for her to replace the old one. He’s made his choice, and he has to live with it. It’s the right thing to do. 

Then why does it feel like his heart is breaking in his chest?

He doesn’t have too much time to think about it before the door opens and Yennefer comes sweeping in, scowling as she shakes out her umbrella and tucks it next to the door. “It’s positively horrid outside, Geralt, couldn’t we have met up at your house?” she says as she runs fingers through her damp hair. 

“I… didn’t think about it, I’m sorry,” he says, swallowing around the lump in his throat. Not _our_ house, but his. That same pang ripples out beneath his ribs and he tamps down on it before it can make his hands shake any more. “How was your trip?”

She looks at him with her eyebrow raised, tilting her head like she’s studying something particularly fascinating. “You never ask how my trip was. Geralt, what’s going on?” she asks, folding her arms across her chest. 

He slips his hand in his pocket and clutches at the small, velvet box that he’s carried with him the last couple of days. It’s now or never, before he loses his nerve. He’s sure he should have picked somewhere romantic, or a better moment, but if he doesn’t, he’ll never do it. _Forgive me, Jaskier,_ he thinks to himself, even though he knows it’s ridiculous. Yennefer has been his lover for years, why would a passing fancy matter as much as this?

_You know why,_ his traitorous heart tells him, but he ignores it.

“Yennefer, I… you know I’m no good with words, but I’ve been thinking over the past few days. About love and what it means, and what _our_ love means.” He pauses, taking a breath before he slides off his stool and gets down on one knee. Yennefer’s eyes are wide and her mouth drops open, but Geralt soldiers on before he can lose his momentum. “Yennefer Vengerberg, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” he asks, opening the box to reveal a sparkling diamond ring that he had picked out from the jewelry store in the city square. It would look beautiful against the tan of Yennefer’s skin, which is why he picked it.

There’s a beat of silence that drags on for what feels like years, the space between heartbeats making Geralt sweat underneath his shirt. She’s still staring at him like she’s never seen him before. Finally, _finally,_ she says, “Geralt, tell me something. Are you going to give up the shop? Sell it and come with me while I travel for my work?” 

It takes him a moment to realize she’s speaking and it’s not the answer he was expecting. “I can’t, Yennefer. Unless you can portal a caravan around, I need a place to work like this. This is my shop, I can’t sell it,” he replies, confused. He’s not sure where this is going, but there’s already a pit of dread that’s starting to open up in his belly. 

“So, do you expect me to stop traveling, stop what I love doing to come stay here in Oxenfurt, even though the university has no use for my skills and I am suited better helping politicians write laws and make changes?” she asks, still not answering his question. His heart is in his throat now, choking out the answers he might give. Of course he doesn’t, but he knows in his heart of hearts that he hates that she’s gone all the time and that it takes so much to keep in touch. But he’d lie through his teeth if that’s what he needed to get her to say yes, to squash the ridiculous feeling in his chest and to just be happy with what he has. When he doesn’t respond, she nods and says, “I thought that might be your answer. Geralt, I love you and I’ve loved the time we spent together, but I can’t marry you.” 

The entire world narrows into a pinpoint, and Geralt feels the beginnings of cracks forming in his heart. That wasn’t what he expected her to say, and now what is he going to do? “But Yennefer, we’ve been together so long, why...why would you say no?” 

She gently reaches down and grabs him by the hand, helping him to his feet and closing the box in his hand. “Because, Geralt, we want very different things. I’m not going to let myself be lured into staying here in a place I couldn’t be happy, and I’m also not going to let you throw away your life’s work in this place because you think it will make me happy. I would never want us to resent each other, and that’s what that will lead to.” 

“You don’t know that,” he whispers, the heat of his hurt and anger threading through the words. 

Yennefer shakes her head. “I do, though. For years I’ve asked you to come with me, to travel and see the world and experience it with me, and you’ve always told me no. Would us marrying make that answer change? I doubt it. And to be completely honest with you, I wouldn’t be willing to give up my career and what I want to do to stay here, either. So we’re at an impasse. Perhaps… perhaps it’s best if I go, and we don’t see each other for a while.” 

Geralt can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Yennefer, please...it’s not my intention to trap you here, we can make it work, please,” he begs, mouth going dry. 

She shakes him off and steps away, the distance between them widening like a chasm has opened up in the floor beneath them. “Geralt, please. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.” There are tears in her eyes and she bites her lip, moving towards the door with purpose. Geralt should go after her, but his knees refuse to move and his legs have locked, keeping him still crouched on the floor as she flees. “Goodbye, Geralt. I…I’m sorry it’s come to this, I really am.” With that, she grabs her umbrella and disappears through the door, leaving Geralt alone in heavy, aching silence right there in the shop.

There’s a whine next to his knee and Roach butts her head up under his hand. He pets her on autopilot, feeling strangely empty by Yennefer’s disappearance. For all the times he’d been angry at her for not replying to his messages, or leaving when he’d just gotten used to having her back, there’s something about the finality of it that is still ringing in his mind, in his bones. That same, conflicted feeling that’s been brewing in his mind spills over, and he lets out a sharp, angry cry that startles Roach into a howl. Now what is he going to do? 

The shop bell rings and Geralt can’t stop the sound in his throat, not until a familiar scent tickles his nose and he feels both like burying his nose in Jaskier’s shoulder and also shoving him away with all the force he can muster. “Geralt? What happened? Are you all right, are you hurt?”

“What are you doing here?” Geralt croaks, still unable to make his limbs cooperate. Of course this fool would appear when Geralt’s entire being is like a hurricane, his stomach in knots and his head feeling like it might explode at any second.

“My classes were released early for some school festival. I wasn’t required to be there, so I came here. Where else would I be?” 

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Of course Jaskier would say something like that, of course he’d figure out what to say that sends Geralt into even more of a tailspin than he already is. Geralt doesn’t need his kindness, his pity. “I didn’t ask you to be here. What if I don’t want you here, did you ever think of that?” he snarls, even as his heart screams _No, don’t, please don’t_ with every single beat against his ribs. 

“Geralt, what… where is this coming from? Surely you don’t mean that.” There’s a quiver in Jaskier’s voice that Geralt has never heard, the sound making him sick to his stomach. He’s stepped back, away from Geralt, and the feeling of déjà vu that washes over him makes him want to bare his teeth. 

“You come in here, with your ridiculous love songs and silly ideas about love and heartbreak. What do you know, huh? You’ve never loved anyone, so what gives you the right to think you know better than the rest of us?” The words burn on his tongue and part of him wants to pull them back, swallow them down so they churn inside his belly instead of spilling out all over Jaskier, who doesn’t deserve this. _You wanted him gone, this is how you do it,_ he hears a nasty voice in his head say, but he doesn’t have the will to push it back down where it belongs. He doesn’t deserve Jaskier, and now Jaskier will know it.

He expects tears, not for Jaskier’s face to twist into something hard and angry. “That’s not fair,” he says, getting to his feet and stepping back. It’s just like when Yennefer left, the scenes transposing themselves in his head. Jaskier’s right, and Geralt wants to tell him that, but his traitorous tongue won’t let him. 

“What’s not fucking fair is me having to listen to your drivel day in and day out when I’m trying to work. I don’t need your distractions and I don’t need you.”

His words hang in the air over the heads and the entire shop is deathly quiet, the only sound the ticking of the grandfather clock. It’s thick and oppressing and Geralt is starting to feel like he can’t breathe. 

“Fine. Then I’ll go,” is all Jaskier says, adjusting the bag on his shoulder. Without another look back he’s hurrying towards the door, and Geralt feels his heart crack down the middle when the bell rings behind him. 

He’s angry for another moment or two, until it burns out and leaves him feeling empty with ash in his mouth. His hand clutches his shirt front as pain radiates out from under his ribs. He realizes a beat too late that his heart, the one he’s guarded and kept under lock and key for so long, is breaking. 

\--

Jaskier is true to his word, he is gone and hasn’t come back since the argument in the shop. Geralt knows it's his fault, even if the ache in his chest didn’t serve as a constant reminder. It’s hard to concentrate on mending other people’s hearts when he can feel the jagged edges of his own rubbing together. The loss of Yennefer hurts, but even he can admit to himself that he should have known better, that she wasn’t wrong. He would never want to clip her wings and trap her in a cage, just as much as he knows he couldn’t leave his work and be trapped in a life he doesn’t want. But Jaskier… 

It hurts to think about him. 

The things he said were unforgivable. What right did he have to sit and stare at the door, waiting for Jaskier, with all of his sunshine and loveliness, to come walking in after that? No, even he’s not that selfish. It’s what he deserves, after all. After trying so hard to keep his heart safe, he managed to break it in the end with his own terrible words.

Triss comes by, offering fresh cookies and coffee just the way he likes it. He must be in worse shape than he thought because the look in her eyes is soft and pitying, which makes him grind his teeth together. “You’re sad,” she says, cocking her head to the side. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this before.”

He thinks about lying, but this is what has gotten him where he is in the first place. “Yes,” is all he offers, hunched over his desk and trying to fit a cog into place. It’s hard when his vision blurs and his hands shake. 

She lets out a sigh and walks around the counter, but doesn’t sit. “Do you want to talk about it? I can listen, if you need.” She puts her hand on his arm and it takes every ounce of willpower not to buck it off. _Don’t touch me, I don’t deserve it,_ he thinks, but doesn’t say. “Is there anything I can do?” 

“No. I… don’t think anyone can,” he says finally, shifting so that her arm falls away. “I broke something I don’t know how to fix.”

“I don’t think that’s true. Have you tried? Or have you just sat here stewing and telling yourself that you can’t? Geralt, I’ve never seen you work before, but I’ve seen many smiling faces come out of your shop after you’ve worked your magic. So why don’t you try a little on yourself, hmm?” She flicks him on the arm once before she heads out, leaving Geralt alone with his thoughts. 

It couldn’t be that easy, could it? 

He sits and ponders for another minute or two, until he gets to his feet and grabs Roach’s lead. He remembers back to the conversation with Jaskier about where he was staying, his heart pounding in his chest at the thought. What would he say? What could he possibly do that would make Jaskier forgive him? But Triss was right. He has to try.

With Roach hot on his heels, he flags down one of the steam taxis in the street and hops inside, ignoring the cabbie’s disdainful look at the bulldog perched on his lap. Geralt makes a mental note to tip him extra, just to get that sour look off his face. He watches out the window, taking in the familiar sights and sounds of the city around him. Years he’s lived here and never once has he felt the need to explore behind the street where he works, or the market he uses, or the cottage where he lives, but now he wonders what it would be like to walk the streets of the city with Jaskier in tow, chattering on about the world around him. 

He wants that, he realizes, all the way down to the marrow of his bones. 

The ride is short, but Geralt feels the passage of time like a drumbeat in his head. The closer they get to the university center, the more the yawning pit in his stomach starts to open up. What if Jaskier rejects him? What if he has broken this so thoroughly that nothing he can say will mend the splinters in his heart and bring Jaskier back to him? He’s a fool, he reminds himself. All of this because he was so worried about breaking his own heart, and instead he broke Jaskier’s.

The taxi stops and Geralt shoves a handful of coins into the driver’s hand, uncaring of the amount before they clamor out. The university campus is bustling with activity, people of all kinds milling about and bursting with so much noise. Geralt grits his teeth and almost gets back into the taxi, but he bolsters himself with the reminder of why he’s here. With a deep breath, he motions to a young man with some sort of complicated instrument attached to his back to get his attention. “Excuse me, do you know where I can find the professors’ quarters? I’m looking for someone, a Professor Pankratz?” 

The young man squints his eyes at first, but lights up at the mention of Jaskier. “Oh! Of course. Well, I don’t know exactly where the professor’s rooms are, but I can lead you to the quarters. It’s on my way!” The young man motions with his hand and off they go, wading into the seemingly never ending sea of students. Geralt had no idea Oxenfurt was so large and he keeps Roach’s leash clutched tightly in his hand. The young man is chattering at him in an overly familiar way, and Geralt wonders if everyone that attends here is like this. It makes him ache, thinking of days in the shop when Jaskier would talk at him and he’d just listen. 

That’s why he’s here. He wants that back, wants to see if it’s something he can spend the rest of his life listening to. 

The professors’ quarters are a larger, looming building towards the back of campus, a little out of the way from the main thoroughfare. As they approach, a lump begins to form in Geralt’s throat the closer they get. Roach whines and nudges his leg, which helps some. “All right girl,” he murmurs to her, before thanking the young man who brought him here. With a wave and a smile the student sets off, leaving Geralt alone to puzzle out what to do. Should he just go in? He’s not sure what the protocol here is, coupled with the thick ball of anxiety that is settling in his stomach, he isn’t sure he can will his body to move yet.

He doesn’t have to wait long before he’s approached by another person, a darker-skinned, short woman with glasses and a rather serious expression on her face. “Excuse me, sir, but can I help you? Students and non-faculty are not allowed here.” Her tone brooks no argument, the practiced voice of a woman who is used to making people listen to her. Geralt finds himself straightening his back and pulling his shoulders together. 

“Please, uh… I’m looking for Professor Pankratz, Jaskier. Do you know where he is?” 

The woman hums, her eyes suddenly sparkling as a small smile curves onto his face. “You must be the Heartsmith. Jaskier’s told me about you. But you’re out of luck, he’s not here.” The twinkle in her eye gets brighter and her smile is a bit indulgent, and Geralt can’t tell if she’s mocking him or is genuinely trying to help him. 

“Where is he? Do you know when he’ll be back?” Geralt asks, frustrated. He grits his teeth together and tries to keep his emotions in check. There’s a growing sense of unease building in his lower belly. 

The woman shrugs her shoulders. “He left about a week ago. Took his lute and put in a leave of absence and that was that.” 

A week ago. Probably right after Geralt’s awful outburst and now there’s a very real possibility that Geralt will never see him again. The pit in his stomach opens up even wider and he can feel his eyes start to prickle in the corners. Fuck, but he refuses to cry here, not in front of this woman who doesn’t need to be an audience to his grief.

“Thank you for your time,” he grumbles out, voice rough as he grips Roach’s lead and starts to walk away. Maybe this is a sign that it’s for the best, that he should give up and just hold onto Jaskier as a fond memory. That thought makes him clutch at his chest and he feels like he might drown. 

Suddenly there’s a hand on his arm and Geralt resists the urge to flinch away. “If he comes back, I’ll tell him you came by.” She pats his arm once and pulls back. “Maybe you should try sending him a message. Those fancy pneumo machines are supposed to be able to find anyone anywhere on the Continent. It’s worth a chance.” 

A tiny flicker of hope blossoms in Geralt’s chest. Of course. He did think of that. He thanks the woman again and dashes off to find another steam taxi to take back to his cottage. He knows he’s not going to get any work done if he goes back to the shop, so he just heads home for the day. 

He spends the next couple of hours writing and rewriting the words he wants to say. Everything feels wrong on his fingertips, the pile of ink-stained paper at his elbow growing higher and higher as the night wears on. Roach whuffs at him to feed her dinner, but that’s the only distraction he allows himself. Words are hard and none of them can convey what he needs to say. 

Finally, after agonizing over it, he decides on something simple, straightforward. 

_Jaskier-_

_I’m sorry. Please come home._

_-Geralt_

It’s enough. It has to be. 

Before he can change his mind, he grabs an envelope and stuffs the simple note inside, sealing it before he can lose his nerve. He slides into the pneumo tube in his office and he hears the _schnick_ of it disappearing into the system. It’s out of his hands now, and there’s a certain feeling of peace that washes over him. 

The deep crack in his heart scabs over, just a bit.

\--

Geralt is sitting in his shop, cleaning up his workstation when he hears the bell over the door chime. He has no appointments he can think of, and he doesn’t usually get drop-ins this late. He turns, nearly dropping the box in his hand when he sees who walked in.

It’s Jaskier, expression carefully blank but he has Geralt’s letter clutched tightly in his hand. “Did you mean it?” is all he asks, hands shaking and his eyes wide and wet.

Geralt wracks his brain for an answer. “The letter?” he replies, but he doubts it would be that easy. But Jaskier is here, in the flesh, and that was more than Geralt ever expected to have again.

“No. Not the letter.” Jaskier folds his arms across his chest and keeps Geralt pinned with his gaze. “Did you mean it?” he repeats.

The lump in Geralt’s throat makes it hard to swallow, but he can feel the weight of the moment pressing against his shoulders. He has to do this right. “No. I was… angry, hurt. Yennefer had just been there and things had gone badly and I took that out on you. It was unfair and wrong of me. I’m sorry.” 

There’s a beat of silence that feels like it stretches along forever, a moment trapped in time that has Geralt’s skin prickling and sweat starting to bead on his hairline. He almost thinks that his apology won’t matter, which he can’t blame Jaskier for in the slightest. Instead, Jaskier lets out a sigh and his face shifts into an expression that Geralt has never seen on Jaskier’s face before. “Geralt, I understand. I doubted I helped by being… well, myself, but you can’t say things like that to people. You hurt me.” He scratches idly at his chest and Geralt looks for the first time. Jaskier’s heart is bruised, not sunderned like he’d feared, but he still knows heartache when he sees it. “If you truly don’t want me to be here, then tell me now. I’ll walk out of your door and never darken your doorstep again.” 

Panic seizes Geralt and he grabs Jaskier’s wrist, whip-quick, to keep him from leaving. “No!” he yells, startling them both. They stare at each other for the span of a heartbeat before Geralt tries again, his voice quieter, “No. I don’t want that.” He swallows, and thinks back to what Triss said the day she visited. He thinks about Vesemir’s words, and realizes that maybe he misunderstood them just a bit. “When Yennefer walked out of here, I felt the cracks in my heart form. But when you walked out? After the things I said? It… it split right down the middle. I don’t know if I can handle that again, so please… don’t go?” 

Jaskier stares at him in open-mouthed wonder, before his jaw snaps shut with an audible click. “You asked me to come home. Geralt, I think it’s time I tell you the truth.” He doesn’t pull away, but he hangs his head and refuses to look at Geralt again. “That day that you asked me if I knew what love was like, I realized that I may have lied unintentionally. I hadn’t realized then that I do know what love looks like. It looks like us. It looks like quiet moments in your shop. It looks like us sharing coffee from Triss’ bakery. It looks like me buying Roach a new bed and you getting that soft, sweet smile that you try to hide from the world. It’s you asking about my lessons even though I know you don’t really care about student compositions.” He lets out a watery laugh, and when he looks up, his eyes are shining with tears. “You, Geralt. _You_ look like love to me.” 

Geralt’s heart slams against his ribs, like it will fly out of his chest if he lets it. That nasty little voice tries to tell him he doesn’t deserve this, but it’s drowned out by the sound of the breath of relief leaving his lungs. Jaskier loves him. _Jaskier loves him._ “Jaskier… I asked you to come home because I want you here. With me. I… may need some time, after I tell you what happened with Yennefer, but I want you here. Please, stay with me.” 

The entire world shifts on its axis when Jaskier hugs him, something inside Geralt locking into place when their bodies press together. He sighs and lets go of Jaskier’s wrist to wrap his arms around him, like he intends to keep him there. “Of course, darling. Where else would I go?” 

There’s no telling how long they stand there embracing, Geralt’s nose pressed into Jaskier’s shoulder and just breathing in the scent of him. He’s real, he’s here, and he’s tucked into Geralt’s arms like he’s been meant to be there all along. Eventually, he has to let go, even if the thought of it makes him ache a little inside. “Is there anywhere you need to be?” he asks, brushing his fingertips along Jaskier’s cheek. 

“Eventually I need to return to the campus to let them know I’m back, but that can wait. Shall we sit?” Jaskier motions towards their usual spots and Geralt can feel the ragged edges of his heart beginning to knit back together, right there in his chest. “I imagine we’ll have more serious conversations at a later time, but for now, shall I tell you where I was?”

Geralt nods, but the anxiety he’s feeling must be obvious on his face because Jaskier tilts his head in question. With a sigh, Geralt explains, “I went to find you. A woman intercepted me on the way to the professors’ quarters, told me you had left.” He pauses to take a deep, shaky breath. “She made it sound like you were gone for good. She knew who I was, but…” he trails off, licking his lips before he looks up at Jaskier. “She made it sound like you were never coming back.”

Jaskier has gone very red in the face, biting his lip. “I may have mentioned you a time or two to her. That’s Velda, my good friend. I’m sorry she made you feel that way. She was probably having a spot of fun with you before she realized that it was hurting you. I’ll have a talk with her next time I see her.” He lets out a sigh and gives Geralt a shaky smile. “I just… needed to get away for a bit. I was going to try and get over you, because you had a lover and then… I was hurt and didn’t know what else to do.” 

“I’m glad you came back,” Geralt whispers as he cups Jaskier’s face in his hand. He means it, all the way down to his soul. Part of him wants to lean in and kiss Jaskier, memorize the taste of his mouth and the feel of his skin beneath his fingers, but he doesn’t. He needs time. They both do. 

And they have it. 

\--

Not much changes, at first. Jaskier still comes swanning into the shop with all the gale force of a hurricane, but Geralt always welcomes it. Now there’s brief touches and they sit closer together, but Jaskier never pushes. Sometimes Geralt is the one who touches first, a skim of his fingers across Jaskier’s arm, or a light touch to his lower back when he moves past him. He likes the way Jaskier’s breath catches and the way his cheeks color a soft pink. It’s a good look and Geralt wants to never miss another one. They move around each other with an ebb and flow that feels domestic and Geralt’s heart slowly knits itself back together. The bruises on Jaskier’s own heart have started to fade as well, and Geralt feels the knot of guilt that sits in his belly start to ease. 

He’s not sure how long they go on like that, dancing around each other but both of them are still afraid to take the first step to something more. Geralt knows Jaskier is waiting for him, but he’s waiting for something else. He’s not sure what, but knows in the back of his mind that there’s _something._

It comes about two months later, in the form of a single letter from Yennefer. He reads it once, a small smile on his face as he does. It’s another apology, but also a release, that she still wants to be a part of his life but not as his lover, but as his friend. It stings, just a bit, but a bigger part of him realizes that maybe it’s okay to still love her, even if that love looks like something different. They have always been friends, even before they fell into bed together, and they can still be even after all of this.

Geralt takes a day or two to think about what he wants to say in return, finally staying up late one night to write his reply. 

_Yennefer-_

_I am also sorry for the way that things unfolded, what I did wasn’t fair to you. You’re always going to be a part of me and my life, even if I’ve come to the realization that maybe I was looking at it from the wrong angle. I love you, but our love is not what I thought it was. And that’s okay._

_Someone very special has taught me that it’s okay if love looks different, just like heartbreak. He reminds me every day that while there are many ways to break a heart, there are just as many to fix it, even if it doesn’t always look the same afterwards. And for that, I am thankful._

_I look forward to your next visit. Maybe I’ll even properly introduce you two, though I think you already suspect who I’m talking about._

_With love,_

_Geralt_

He sends it through the pneumo and feels a weight lift from his shoulders. Things are going to be alright. 

The next day, he’s ready. He spends the morning bustling around the shop, anything to keep the nervous thrumming under his skin to a minimum. His hands are too jittery to work, but he focuses on cleaning and setting up future appointments, organizing his tools and polishing them to a shine. Something to keep his hands busy and his mind off of what he plans to say when the person he most wants to see walks through his door.

Jaskier comes just before lunchtime, carrying a box of something that smells good enough to have Geralt’s mouth watering. “I hope you enjoy Cintran food, I picked it up on the way because I thought we could have lunch together. This morning has been a nightmare, what with the change in curriculum and-- Geralt? Are you all right?” he asks, stopping himself and setting the food down on the counter. 

All of the words he had planned to say fly out of his head. The thoughtfulness of the gesture is the tipping point and Geralt strides over to where Jaskier is still standing, looking at him with furrowed eyebrows. Without saying anything he gently tugs Jaskier to him, sliding his hands along his jaw to tilt his head up. Jaskier’s lips are pink and soft-looking from this close, slick from where the tip of his tongue keeps poking out to lick them. The last pieces of his heart click into place and he leans down to capture those beautiful lips with his own.

They move together as if they’ve kissed a thousand times before, Geralt drinking down the soft sighs that Jaskier makes into their kiss. His entire body feels light and warm, and he knows for sure now that he wants this for the rest of his days. The kiss feels like coming home. 

When they break apart, Jaskier blinks at him and a warm, sweet smile spreads across his mouth. “What brought that on?” he asks softly, like he’s afraid to speak too loud and break the moment that’s passing between them. 

“Nothing. Everything. You,” is all Geralt can think to say before he kisses him again. That same feeling washes over him and he wraps his arms around Jaskier to pull him as close as he can manage. The rest of the world melts away around them and Geralt feels like he might overflow from all the feelings that are welling up inside of him. His heart thumps against his ribs and he isn’t afraid of drowning here, not anymore.

Of course, the moment is interrupted by Roach, who had somehow managed to get up on the counter and is currently devouring their lunch without a single shred of guilt. She gives him a doggy grin and goes back to what she was doing, and he can’t even be mad at her. “You’re too smart for your own good,” he grouses, but earns him a sweet, bell-laugh from Jaskier. 

“Shall we order in, then?” 

With another peck to Jaskier’s kiss-swollen mouth, he replies, “Sure. Then you can tell me all about your morning.” Jaskier smiles so wide it splits his cheeks, and he rushes off to grab the phone from the wall. Geralt tunes it out, for now, settling himself onto his stool and pulling one of the boxes from the shelf. The heart inside is broken, but Geralt can see where the edges can be gently mended, that it can be fixed with just a bit of care and some twine. 

A heart is a delicate thing, he knows, but they’re also made to love, and can be strengthened by the force of feelings that bloom within it. They can be mended, even when it seems like the pieces are too sharp to put back together. He glances up at Jaskier, who is leaning up against the wall and happily chatting to the person on the other end of the line and Geralt feels his own heart swell in his chest. 

It’s a careful thing, handling a heart. He’s just glad he found someone he knows he can trust to handle his.

-END-

**Author's Note:**

> Liked it? Loved it? Let me know below in the comments or over at #eyesofshinigami#0707 on Discord. 
> 
> And don't forget to drop some love over on corancoranthemagicalman on Tumblr for their incredible art!


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